


how to train your inner dragon

by starciti



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-22 16:02:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4841672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starciti/pseuds/starciti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chrom isn’t sure of many things, but he’s fairly certain that dragons are not native to Ylisse.</p><p>self-indulgent fic about an au ?? basically<br/>i'll add more characters and tags as they come up tbh</p>
            </blockquote>





	how to train your inner dragon

**Author's Note:**

> i'll put a summary of the au at the end of this ?? maybe  
> please take note that in this chapter and a few to come they're still smol children. chrom and robin are like. nine. please keep that in mIND  
> enjoy !  
> i also really don't know what's making some of the paragraphs be indented and some aren't but i really don't care enough to fix it lmao

He isn’t sure how long he’s been running.

          Truthfully, he isn’t even sure _where_ he’s running. He lost track of when he passed his country’s borders long ago, and he’s yet to find out where he ended up. Logic tells him he should know; Valm is to the west, Regna Ferox in the north, and Ylisse right next to them in the east. So long as he knows what direction he went in, he should know where he is.

          Damn it.

          He _knew_ he had forgotten to make sure of something.

          There’s fresh snow upon the ground, and he realizes suddenly that this is the first time he’s ever seen such a thing. Plegia was always far too warm for snowfall; it didn’t get anywhere near as cold as Ylisse or Regna Ferox. And as his bare feet sink in the snow and freeze to a point of near numbness along with the rest of his body, he realizes that this is far from a good thing. Every so often, he miscalculates how far he should pull his foot up to step forward, and he crashes to the ground, but he gets back up every time. Even as the ground manages to scratch him and leave red marks that are likely to become bruises later, he always gets back up.

          He’s afraid to see what will happen if he doesn’t.

          Eventually, the aching in his legs and practically every other part of his body is enough to force him to stop, but the force of how suddenly he stops is enough to make him crash to the ground yet again. He winces a little too loudly as he rolls to his back, taking in shaky inhales and sputtering on trembling exhales as he stares at the blurry night sky. One of his hands hesitantly lifts itself off the ground and touches his side, but as soon as the two make contact, he hisses in pain, and his hand retracts.

          _Blood,_ is all he can think, his lips tugging downwards into a frown as he gazes upon his hand, flexing it as his hazy vision manages to recognize the crimson upon it as such. He lets out a soft moan, letting his hand fall back down as he tilts his head back, not even bothering to keep his eyes from fluttering shut. He’s bleeding again. He no longer doubts that he should have tried to bandage himself up before running too much, but it is too late for these thoughts. What’s done is done. There’s no way for him to go back and change what he did, so he merely has to find a way to fix it in this moment.

          With a grunt, he rolls onto his stomach, pressing his hands into the snow and pushing himself up, falling once or twice due to his shaky arms. Eventually, amidst his stumbling, he’s able to bring himself to his feet, and he blinks a few times, finally managing to look around. His vision is hazy, and the snow hanging in the air does nothing to help, but he can see something faintly in the distance. It’s not too far, so once he steps forward and squints his eyes, he can see the faint outline of something he recognizes all at once.

          His heart sinks into his stomach.

          It’s a castle.

          He’s in Ylisse.

          He isn’t sure what feeling overtakes him at that moment — it is something along the lines of disappointment, but at a much larger scale. He can feel fear prickle in the pit of his stomach as well, but that he is at least able to smother for the time being. He lets a heavy sigh pass through his lips, and he rubs his arms absentmindedly, not even bothering to wipe the blood from his hand before he did so.

          Oh, damn it all!

          With the beginnings of a snarl tugging at his blue lips, he glances down upon the back of his crimson-stained hand, staring at the six-eyed mark that serves as a constant reminder of why Ylisse is the _last_ place he wants to be. He knows not how they would treat him if they were to find out just who and _what_ he is, and he would really rather not find out. It’s far too late in the night for anyone to still be roaming outside, but he feels as if his mark is glowing, serving as a beacon to give away just who he is.

          Wait.

          It _is_ glowing.

          Realization strikes him like an axe to the head, and his eyes snap open, quickly flicking up to the night sky. He has to squint to try and see past the fog of the night, but the sky is clear aside from this, and he can see with no difficulty the last thing he wants to see, for the half-moon seems to glow brighter than anything else in the sky.

          Pure _panic_ floods his veins faster than he can register, and he stumbles backwards, his hand clutching at the one that bears the mark as if he’s trying to shield it from the light of the glowing sky. However, his efforts are fruitless either way — no amount of shielding himself is enough to stop the events that are to come, and he realizes this all too late as he feels an unmistakable pressure form at the base of his shoulder blades. A cry of surprise leaves his lips when a shock of pain shoots through his entire body, and he collapses to his knees, arms wrapping tightly around his torso and eyes widened as far as they can manage.

          _No,_ is all he thinks, his breathing becoming more and more labored as his lungs have to work harder and harder to take in air. No, this — this shouldn’t be happening. Not now. His schedule of when this is to happen is slightly unreliable at best, but he could have sworn that there was at least a fortnight before this was to happen again! Why now? Why _here?_

          There is another sudden shock of pain, and another cry that leaves his lips.

          This is happening now, whether he likes it or not. This as much, he is certain of.

          His grip on his torso tightens as he feels every muscle in his body start to _change,_ and it takes every ounce of strength he has to convince himself not to panic. _Breathe,_ he thinks, gasping in a shaky intake of air. He can make it through this. He just has to focus.

          Really, he has no other choice.

          He can feel every part of his physical being changing, and his vision going in and out is enough to make him realize that his mental being is slipping from him as well. At this, he grunts, and he does not hear his own voice — he hears something much lower, much more hostile, much more utterly _inhuman,_ and it fills him with a type of fear that is unparalleled by the pain that courses through every inch of his body.

          What did he ever do, to deserve this?

          The pressure in his shoulder blades increases in a forceful fit, and he can all but _feel_ what resides beneath his skin, waiting for the chance to escape and fully take over his body. Everything else has already changed — it will take nothing more than the pain of this to make his mind disappear altogether, and let the half that is what he truly is take over.

          Why is he like this?

          He lets go of his torso for a mere moment, so he can gaze down upon his trembling hands, watching as they shake and all but _contort_ into the hands of someone that is not him.

          Truthfully, he does not know.

          Something rips through his back, and he lets loose a strangled scream — one of desperation, of despair, of pure _agony,_ that rings through the air and echoes in the night.

          And everything goes black.

* * *

          Chrom is awoken by the sound of a scream.

          Needless to say, it isn’t particularly the most pleasant of wake-up calls — especially when it can’t be any later than three in the morning, and he isn’t supposed to wake up for another five hours.

          He doesn’t have the best of luck, to say the least.

          A jolt of shock runs through his body, which makes him sit straight up, a soft gasp leaving his lips as he snaps his head to look toward the window. The glass is tightly shut, and he knows that nothing will be able to get in — not even the howling wind is enough to seep through.

          Then where did that scream come from?

          Hesitantly, he slips out from underneath the warm covers of his bed, tiptoeing over to the window and slipping the latch open, letting his small hands grasp at the edge of the glass, tugging it ever so gently.

          This is his first mistake.

          The window flies open with such a force that he has to jump back to avoid getting hit by it, and he raises his arms in front of his face to shield it from the wind. He peers over his arms ever so slightly, glancing at the rattling glass of his windows and the fabric of his curtains that are whipping around in the wind, and he wonders how much trouble he’s going to get in for this in the morning. He pushes these thoughts out of his mind with a shake of his head, and steps forward, pressing against the bitter wind until he’s outside upon the balcony, and he finally lets his arms fall.

          He has to squint to see anything against the wind that hits his face head on and throws his hair and clothes to and fro, and try as he might, he sees nothing — nothing out of the ordinary, anyways. He can see the maze that his family has liked to call the gardens; he can see the training area for the soldiers, and the roof of almost every house in Ylisstol, but he cannot see anything that would warrant as the source of what he heard. With an uncharacteristic frown, he slips back inside, but he has no plans on going back to sleep; not with the icy chill of the wind in his veins and the unease swirling in his mind. Without even bothering to shut the window first (which Frederick is going to kill him for, come morning), he creaks open the door to his room and slides outside, quietly shutting it behind him before glancing around.

          Where is he to go now?

          His first instinct tells him to go to his sister, and he sees no reason to ignore it. Yes, Emmeryn will know what to do — she always does.

          Right?

          Even if he’s _wrong,_ he still finds himself padding down the corridor, picking up his pace every time he hears the wind collide against the walls of the castle, or the sound of someone shifting in their rooms. He’s all but running down the hall by the time he makes it halfway there, and if not for his collision with something — which he presumes to be whomever is keeping watch outside of his sister’s room tonight — he probably would have gone past the room altogether.

          He stumbles backwards at first, but quickly regains his balance, shaking his head a little before glancing up at whoever he managed to bump into.

          And he feels his heart sink into his stomach.

          “Frederick,” He says, attempting to swallow back his nervousness as he gazed into the sternness that had weaved its way into the knight’s eyes. Of course, of all people to run into, it _had_ to be the one that was never going to let him in to see his sister _and_ never let him hear the end of leaving his rooms this late at night. “You — I didn’t see you there!”

          “From the way milord was running with his eyes shut,” Frederick began, his voice as stern as his expression. “I wouldn’t suppose that you would have been able to see me, anyways.”

          Chrom’s cheeks flush a light shade of red, and he really hopes that it’s dark enough for that to be hidden.

          “Yes, well,” He starts, biting his lower lip as he tries to think of what to say. “Listen, can I just — can I go in? I need to talk to Emm.”

          “Absolutely not,” The response is immediate and sharp, but there is no hint of rudeness in his tone. “The Exalt needs her sleep, as do you. ‘Twould be within my best interest to escort you back to your rooms at once.”

          Chrom’s immediate response is nothing more than a huff, and he stands up straight, looking up to meet Frederick’s eyes as he juts his chin out.

          “Emm wouldn’t mind,” He insists, crossing his arms over his chest. “She told me so. She said I could come to her after I had a nightmare. So let me in.”

          It’s stretching the truth a little and he knows it, but he hopes that Frederick does not. Which, in all reality, was fruitless in itself — the knight’s eyebrows arch at his words, and Chrom knows immediately that he doesn’t believe him.

          “Regardless of what your sister said or did not say,” Frederick begins, his tone never faltering. “An unpleasant dream is hardly enough to disturb her. I see no difference between speaking with her now and in the morning. You will merely have to be patient.”

          Chrom’s mouth opens to say something else, but before a single word is uttered, he is interrupted by the sound of a door slowly creaking open. Both his eyes and Frederick’s turn toward the source, and Chrom isn’t sure if he is to be embarrassed or relieved at the sight of his sister, half-asleep and straightening out her nightclothes, standing in the doorway.

          “Your Grace,” Frederick says, and Chrom can tell by the tone of his voice that he has chosen the path of being embarrassed. He gives a quick bow at the sight of her, and his head is lowered slightly as he speaks. “My sincerest apologies for waking you — I will take great care in making sure I do not do so again.”

          “Peace, Frederick,” His sister says, and her voice is still filled with drowsiness, but the softness and kindness has yet to fade, and Chrom can feel his worries ease a little. “’Tis nothing to worry yourself over. But if I may ask, to whom are you…?”

          Her eyes fall upon Chrom before she can finish her sentence, and she cuts herself off — obviously enough, she’s found her answer. Chrom himself gives a sheepish smile, and finds himself to be embarrassed as well — to the point where he feels as if he shouldn’t speak in this situation. Frederick notices this immediately, and he straightens his back, clearing his throat ever so subtly in order to gain their attention.

          “If I may intervene,” He begins, his gaze turning back to Emmeryn. “Milord has claimed that he has suffered from a nightmare. A claim I myself do not fully believe, but he seemed rather set on seeing you, Your Grace.”

          Chrom shifts his balance on his feet and mumbles an incoherent retort, but his sister appears to understand. She nods in Frederick’s direction and gives him a thank you, before she kneels to her brother’s height, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder and offering a soft, reassuring smile.

          “Chrom,” She says, her voice filled with a sincere type of kindness that begins to numb his worries. “Is this true?”

          Chrom’s immediate response is a nod, even though he knows that he’s not being completely truthful.

          “Yes,” He admits, twisting his fingers around and averting his gaze. “Well… partly. I guess. I mean, it wasn’t really a _dream_ — it was more like I heard something. I think.”

          He can all but feel Frederick’s expression change to one that’s obviously pleased with him for knowing he was right, but his sister’s kind one never falters — instead, her lips crease back in a wider smile that manages to comfort him even more.

          “Is that so?” She asks, and her voice is quiet and gentle. Chrom can feel his shoulders relax a little at the realization of this — there’s no need to be nervous around his sister. She’ll never lose her temper around him. “What did you hear, then?”

          Chrom’s bare feet shuffle on the floorboards once again, and he gently bites his lower lip. What _did_ he hear? He really doesn’t want to think back on that. He doesn’t want to think back on the ghastly ululation that pierced through the night, and how it managed to find its way to his ears. He really doesn’t want to think back on how much utter agony was weaved into the noise, and how the sound of it was enough to wrench him from his sleep and turn his blood to ice. By now, he shudders at the mere thought of it.

          “A scream,” Is what he forces out, having to use every fiber of his being to keep himself from squeezing his eyes shut as tightly as they can go when he hears it again in his mind. “I… I heard someone scream.”

          From the way her eyebrows knit and her smile falters, Chrom can tell that he has caught his sister off guard. She stays silent for a moment, as she is unsure of what to say, but she eventually squeezes his shoulder ever so gently and smiles once more.

          “Are you sure it wasn’t just the wind?” She asks, a soft chuckle leaving her parted lips. “A cliché alternative, I’m sure. But can’t you hear it? It’s awfully loud tonight. I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s what you heard.”

          Chrom can’t help but think that she may be right, when he lets the conversation yield for a moment so he can listen to the howling wind that is pounding relentlessly against the castle walls. Could that have been it? It’s a logical alternative. Perhaps he really did get up and bother her for nothing.

          But his mind replays the noise he heard once more, and he is certain that this is not the case. Whatever he heard — whether it was a scream or not — was something much more than the wind. Something that was able to drag him from the clutches of sleep, and fill him with such an overwhelming amount of unparalleled _fear_ that he was not able to handle it by himself. The wind cannot do that. He is certain of this much.

          “No,” He says, his head shaking back and forth. “No, I — I don’t think so. It… I don’t know. It sounded like someone. Or, well, _something._ It wasn’t the wind. I don’t know what it was, but… it wasn’t that.”

          Emmeryn’s response is a soft hum.

          “I see,” She says eventually, and her hand slips off his shoulder. “Well, whatever or whomever it was, it can’t get to you when you’re in here. You know that, right, Chrom? You’re safe in here.”

          “I know that,” He insists, and he finally meets her eyes. “But… what if really was someone? What if they need our help? You can’t scream like that and be perfectly fine.”

          “I’m certain that if you heard it,” Emmeryn begins, folding her hands in front of herself. “Then someone else did, as well. If someone was out there and needed help, there is no doubt in my mind that someone who was much closer to them was able to hear them and help them. There’s no reason for you to fret, Chrom.”

          At this, the prince lets out a breath he wasn’t aware that he had been holding, and his shoulders slump as he relaxes. She’s right and he knows it, which is enough to give him the comfort he was looking for. His sister realizes this, and stands back up, straightening out her nightclothes once again.

          “Now then,” She says, smiling down at her brother. “I trust you will be going back to sleep now? Frederick is going to be cross if you don’t.”

          The prince snorts and the knight sighs, which is enough to prompt Emmeryn into letting out a soft laugh. She bids them both good night with a soft voice, and her door is shut once again, leaving Chrom and Frederick alone in the corridor. Without saying a word, Chrom has turned on his heel, and is on his way back to his rooms before Frederick can even think to say anything.

          The walk back is slower than the way there; for there are thoughts still swimming around in Chrom’s head that he can’t seem to get rid of. His sister’s words were enough to ease his worries, but they are not enough to numb his curiosity — after all, what if she’s wrong? What if there truly is someone out there that needs his help? More than that — what was enough to prompt someone into screaming like that?

          Chrom stops dead in his tracks before his door, and shudders.

          He doesn’t think he wants to find out.

          A burst of cold air hits him as he enters his room, and he shuts his eyes as he shivers, quickly shutting the door behind him so that the coldness doesn’t seep into the corridor. He had forgotten about the window, but with the brisk air of the night filling his room, it’s hard to forget about it any longer. The wind has calmed down some, so he thinks it shouldn’t be too hard to shut it, and he slowly opens his eyes, ready to face the cold night air that will hit him head on.

          What he is not prepared for, however, is a dragon.

          Well, _a dragon_ isn’t the best explanation, but it’s the first thing he thinks. In all reality, what’s standing before him is a boy — one that can’t be any older or larger than he is, and is standing right in the middle of the open window. He almost would have blended in with the night sky, but the moonlight just so happens to shine right upon him, and his features are illuminated for Chrom to see. His skin is dark, but his hair is bright — pure white locks that are stained with shades of crimson and brown that falls in front of his eyes. His eyes, which are a piercing shade of red that seem to glow in the night, are fixated upon Chrom, and they do not blink no matter how long he stands there. His lips are pressed into a thin line, but his expression is that of… pain, Chrom thinks — an amount of pain that fills him with something that may be along the lines of pity.

          But what catches his eye, above all else, are the massive, dragon-like wings that protrude from his back.

          Chrom is not sure how long he spends staring at the boy, but no matter how long it was, neither of them moved. The first instincts of the prince are telling him to run, but he cannot — no matter how hard he tries, he is frozen in place, and cannot move a muscle. The boy in front of him is standing perfectly still as well — aside from the shaky rise and fall of his torso with his ragged breathing, he is as still as a statue, and Chrom is unsure if this is a good thing or not. He’s hunched over ever so slightly, and one of his arms is pressed against his side, in a way that looks to be uncomfortable, judging by the look on his face.

          “You…” Chrom suddenly manages to force out, his voice nothing more than a whisper. “Who — What are you…?”

          His voice cuts itself off before he can continue, for his muscles are suddenly functioning — he takes a quick step back, reaching his hand for the handle of the door as he makes an attempt at planning his escape.

          This is his second mistake.

          The boy swoops forward before there is a chance to react, his movements too fast to even see. His hand closes around Chrom’s throat, and he all but slams him against the wall, leaning forward so their faces are inches apart.

          Now that he’s in this close of a proximity to the boy, he can see details upon his face that were invisible to him before. His teeth are bared in a snarl as a low growl escapes his lips, and his teeth are honestly sharp enough to be classified as fangs. His eyes are even brighter up close, but that is not Chrom’s main concern.

What concerns him the most, in this moment, is that under each eye, there are two more.

“You… You’re… Plegian,” He chokes out, his words strangled due to the pressure on his throat. The boy lets out an even lower growl at this, and his grip on Chrom’s throat tightens, which is enough to make him gasp for air. At this, logic states he would be prompted into fighting back, but something else catches his eye, and he does not. In this moment, he is able to look down, and catch sight of the arm that the boy is clutching to his side. Now that he can get a closer look at it, he realizes that there’s something dripping from his hand and seeping through his shirt — something dark, and notably crimson.

“You’re hurt,” Chrom whispers, and the boy’s grasp upon both his throat and his side tightens. His fingernails are sharp and unmistakably claw-like, but he can’t really bring himself to care — he can only focus on the crimson that doesn’t seem to want to stop dripping from this boy’s side.

          How did this happen to him?

          “I can… I can help,” He chokes out, finally forcing himself to make eye contact with the piercing red orbs that chill him to the bone. These words are, most obviously, a shock to the boy — for his eyes suddenly fill with an overwhelming amount of confusion, and his grip on Chrom’s throat loosens slightly. Chrom sees this as an opportunity, and he flashes a nervous smile, gently resting his hand upon the others and squeezing it.

          “I’m not the best at that kind of stuff,” He admits, hesitantly lifting the boy’s hand off of his neck. Surprisingly, he does not resist — he merely lets Chrom hold his hand in the air, as he cannot seem to comprehend that help has been offered to him. “But… I think I can bandage that, at the very least. If you’d let me.”

          There is only silence in response, but eventually, the boy’s hand slowly lowers, hanging by his side as it had been before. Chrom’s smile loses a bit of its nervousness, and he wipes his hand on his shirt, wondering how on earth he got himself into this situation.

          “You can sit on my bed, if you want,” He says, gesturing towards it. “It’ll be easier if you’re sitting down. Er… I think.”

          The boy suddenly looks uneasy, but complies — he settles down upon the bed with great hesitance, using both of his hands to compress the wound on his side as he waits. Vaguely, Chrom wonders if he’ll be able to help at all — he has no bandages, after all. What is he supposed to use?

          A gust of wind is enough to break him from his thoughts of the boy, and he remembers suddenly that he has still yet to shut his window. He holds up a finger to tell him that he’ll be just a moment, and quickly takes hold of the glass, pushing against the bitter wind as he makes his best attempt to shut it. Eventually, he’s able to succeed, and he clasps the window’s lock shut once again, letting out a sigh of relief. In this moment, he’s able to catch sight of something that may help him — it’s nothing more than a strip of fabric that’s meant to keep the curtains pulled back, but in this moment, he thinks it’ll do. He hastily snatches it from the curtains, and returns back to the boy’s side, sitting down next to him and eyeing his wounded side.

          “Um… I think you’re going to have to take your shirt off, for me to do this right,” He says. The boy is obviously not content with this, but he complies either way, and slips his shirt off over his shoulders, carelessly tossing it to the side. The sight of his bare chest — covered in red marks and bruises that cannot be very old — is enough to make worry bubble up in the pit of Chrom’s stomach, but he smothers it for the time being. As of this moment, his focus is the wound on his side.

          “That looks… pretty bad,” He mumbles, biting his lower lip gently as he takes in the sight of it. It doesn’t appear to be infected yet, but he’s sure it’s on the way to getting there. However, he knows there’s nothing he can do about this — it’s far too late to be waking up the clerics. Instead, he merely mumbles a soft apology in regards to the pain he might cause him, and gently starts to wrap the fabric around his torso, trying his best to cover the entire wound. The boy hisses in pain as soon as he begins this, but he stays still — obviously enough, he’s accustomed to pain like this.

          “What’s your name?” Chrom asks, in an attempt to divert the boy’s attention from the pain that’s being inflicted upon him. The boy’s immediate response is a low growl — one that makes Chrom think that maybe he can’t even speak. However, as he listens more closely, he can hear the beginnings of a voice among his growl, and he is able to make out what he thinks he may be saying.

          “Rōbin,” Is what he hears, mixed in with the low growl of this boy’s voice. He stills his hands for a moment so he can look up at him, making eye contact with his pained red orbs.

          “Robin?” He asks, and there is a nod in reply. “All right… so your name is Robin. That’s good to know. My name is Chrom.”

          Robin gives a low hum in response, which quickly turns into a hiss as he goes back to wrapping the wound. As quickly as he can without being too hasty, Chrom wraps it as much as he can, tying a loose knot after he thinks he’s covered what needs to be.

          “You definitely need to get that cleaned later,” Chrom sighs, folding his hands in his lap. “But I think that’s good for now. It’ll tide you over until morning, at least.”

          Robin gives a nod in response, and the pain in his eyes is starting to fade, giving way to something that Chrom can recognize as overwhelming fatigue. He gives a gentle smile, and pats the bed a little.

          “You can sleep here, if you want,” He begins, only widening his smile as Robin turns to him with such a tired look on his face, he can no longer be afraid of him. “I won’t mind.”

          Robin doesn’t seem particularly comfortable with sleeping in the same bed as a stranger, but he is much too tired to care — so instead of complaining, he merely slides onto the bed fully, curling up into a ball and draping his wings over himself. Chrom stares at him for a few moments before sighing, lying down next to him and pulling the blankets up so they cover both him and Robin.

          “Robin, huh,” He begins, his words only a mumble to himself. He gazes upon the sleeping face of said boy, before sighing gently, settling down a little more and resting his head upon the pillows. “I wonder what you are.”

          Unsurprisingly, there is no response.

**Author's Note:**

> so ! this is about an au i created with my friend called the cycle au, which is basically one where robin is basically a werewolf of sorts, but. grima. every half moon, they shift into a sort of half-dragon thing. but the next morning they're still robin. basically a grima werewolf, maybe ??  
> there's more to it and that's especially when it comes to morgan but i won't talk about that unless this starts to get more attention and it's actually needed lmao  
> i'm au trash honestly that's all you'd ever need to know about me
> 
> songs used for inspiration:  
> nothing left to say / rocks - imagine dragons  
> turn off the lights - panic! at the disco


End file.
